Wednesday, 8 July 2009

White Cross. I have no idea where that is, except for being exactly where I was. I walk for a little while and climb over a fence into a field.

I traverse the relatively flat terrain. The grass bites my feet and fills my shoes, which feels refreshing. Another two, similarly looking fields move under my feet until I acquiesce with a proverbial fork. I relish the opportunity of making a decision.

Left or right?

I choose left.

An abandoned building is the first notable landmark. With door ajar, I gingerly peer inside half expecting to be greeted by....well, I'm not exactly sure.

A flock of empty beer cans, a herd of plastic bottles, a bunch of cigarette ends and a gang of needles were the items that said hello. A little Narnia crack den, but apart from that, nothing to be too perturbed about. The building's name (or misnomer) quite clearly preceding it. It was more of an unenthusiastic building than a dangerous one.

I progressed into the woodland.

A faint wisp of barbeque sauce meandered through leaves and moths, reaching my olfactory bulb and tickling my hippocampus, stimulating a recent memory of grilled burgers. This was most peculiar. A bush stood isolated in the nearest opening. My curiosity drew me over the muddied ground towards it.

A dark singular brach jutted away from the thin main trunk, exposed to a curious eye. It harboured a secret galaxy of burning red bulbs of life and dust, light years away from each other, suspended in time. Isolated. It reminded me of Carl Sagan's Pale Blue Dot. This single branch, amongst all branches, attached indefinitely to the light filtering through the cone cells of my retina, stimulating phototransduction and caressing my optical nerve, electrifying neurons and shaking hands with my parietal lobe. A reflection of our own isolated selves.